


Roommates

by Brillador



Series: Our Fine Town (Next Generation) [6]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Feels, Angst and Humor, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-05-05
Packaged: 2018-09-26 18:29:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9915494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brillador/pseuds/Brillador
Summary: Canon-divergent at the end of S5. After they succeed in saving their child from Hades' contract, Belle and Rumple return to the land of the living only to face a greater challenge: a future together with their unborn child. Three months later, they leave Storybrooke for a new life in New York. A fresh start without magic, without the shackles and crutches of their old lives. But they might find that the darkness and light of the past have followed them.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Chronologically, this is the first story in the Our Fine Town series.

They had rented an apartment in a family-friendly neighborhood, according to sources on the Internet. The stately brownstone stood on a comparatively quiet side street nestled between two avenues close to but not buried in Brooklyn’s downtown. Money wasn’t an issue right now, but the rent was prudently priced for the area. It was meant to be a one-year trial, after all. One year in a new home, a new city, removed from everything they’d comfortably known, for a chance at something better.

All built on a promise that they would make things better, Belle reminded herself.

She studied her new room. She was was trying to mentally arrange her bookcase, dresser, future bed, future crib. Just what anyone in her place would be doing. In those terms, the scenario sounded mundanely straightforward. The technical elements were falling into place without exceptional effort. Rumple had handled the bulk of research on rented apartments and showed her the most attractive choices. Grumpy had volunteered to handle the furniture with Happy and Tiny. Tiny, or Anton, was the most enthusiastic of anyone to pay a visit to the Land Without Magic, if only while transporting Rumple and Belle’s belongings. A debate over whether crossing the line would keep Anton at his reduced height or restore him to giant size had thrown in some levity that Belle welcomed.

Reality in its devilish details was far from straightforward. For Belle, those details made it a battle to keep waves of panic at bay, especially in solitary moments. Back in her modest apartment above the library, while packing a suitcase or a box, she’d suddenly feel ill. Not from morning sickness or about living with Rumple again. They’d discussed at length how the arrangement would work. She carried a flickering torch of hope that Rumple’s bad habits would be derailed by the absence of magic. No, what upended her stomach was everything to be left behind. She would say goodbye to her father again. She would give Archie and Granny final hugs. Snow and David would send her off with encouraging words. If only she’d heard more while living there.

The thought had stung and thrown open the doors of memory to so many lost opportunities. Ruby was back in the Enchanted Forest, so Belle couldn’t bid her farewell. She wasn’t sure how much she wanted to have a parting word with Emma and Hook. On the one hand, she was glad to see them restored to their old selves—in Hook’s case, returned to a living state. Emma did eventually find a moment to apologize for what she did as the Dark Swan. Hook apologized, too, by far a better attempt than his first. But even in the wake of these peacemaking gestures, she felt adrift. Three people she cared for—no, four, counting Regina and her stunt with Belle’s heart—had betrayed her trust. Oh, that wasn’t even counting her father, even if the mine-cart incident happened over a year ago. But it was Rumple’s lies that had ripped open a hole in her heart. It made forgiving further injuries harder to do.

Maybe that was a good thing. Maybe she trusted and forgave too easily. Maybe this was a sign that she shouldn’t even give Rumple another chance.

The doubt niggled her over the couple of months after, well, all the madness. Rumple losing the Darkness, Rumple taking back the Darkness, both she and Rumple ending up in the Underworld fighting Hades for their child. Through all that, she’d wrestled with her feelings about her future with him. Yes, Rumple had been freed of the Dark One’s influence, restored to (perhaps elevated from) the man he used to be—the man she’d always seen in him. She’d been proud of him. She’d had so much hope that he would find his path at last. But she’d warned herself that she couldn’t take responsibility anymore. She had her own path to find and her own heart to mend. Did she completely dismiss the idea of being with him again someday? Of course not! If she had, she wouldn’t have run back to him that night when he put her happiness before his own. The action had convinced her that the man who had sacrificed his life to save her and Neal from Pan was back, and, well, her heart drowned out her head. And now . . .

Pregnant. With his child. And he was the Dark One again.

Gods, was she the biggest fool in all the realms?

These thoughts never left her throughout the packing process, the drive to New York, the grueling task of transferring their belongings up a flight of stairs to the apartment, and now. The true now—the first step on what could’ve been the most treacherous quest she’d ever embarked on.

She had to sit down. A big box of linens sufficed.

Her hands were achy from the loads she’d carried up with the dwarves and Anton. Rumple had to take it easy due to his leg. They were nearly finished, only the last, biggest pieces of furniture left to bring up. Happy guarded the truck while Grumpy and Anton accepted the heaviest burden. She ought to put herself to further use instead of sitting. But she couldn’t rise yet. She needed a moment to reflect on this room, this foreign entity.

Well, the light pouring into the room was pretty. It highlighted the dust cloud clouding the air, but she refused to complain. She could see the sunbeams. That was a divine sight. It was like the fingers of destiny were touching the wall and floor, christening them. Should the crib go there? Maybe her bed for now. Her queen-sized, designated-for-one bed.

Apprehension churned in her stomach. Not as bad as before the move. Her body was gradually accepting the change, albeit under protest. Maybe the person growing inside her sensed the changes, too, and didn’t like it. Belle surprised herself by straightening, laying a hand on her belly and smiling.

“It’ll be okay,” she whispered.

Heavy, encumbered feet thumped through the kitchen. Their tremors could be felt down the short hallway, past the den, to Belle’s room. Reluctant limbs pushed her to her feet. She smoothed her skirt and blouse front and approached the doorway to poke her head out.

Grumpy had the front-end of an antique dresser. “Where do you want this?” he barked.

“Right in here.” She motioned him to keep coming forward while she stepped backward. Grumpy and Tiny’s entrance with the bureau came to a staggered crawl as they negotiated the awkward angle needed to turn the piece of furniture into the bedroom.

“You sure you couldn’t order new stuff and put it together inside?” Grumpy grumbled.

“I did for the bed,” Belle said. “Don’t worry. It’ll fit. You’re almost there!”

Sure enough, with some coaching and coaxing on her part, the dresser made it in. The two men were huffing after the fact. Belle almost didn’t bring up a detail that would’ve eased their efforts.

“Um, why did you put the drawers back in? We could have done that once it was in the room.”

“What?” Grumpy stomped around to check that, indeed, the drawers have been returned to the dresser. The dwarf turned on his fellow mover. “Tiny! Those were full of clothes! No wonder it was another ten pounds!”

“Not ten pounds,” Belle chided.

“Sorry,” the bigger man whimpered. “I put them back in after we brought it upstairs. I didn’t know where it was going to go, and the drawers took up space lying around!”

Grumpy huffed. His rage defused on the quick side, but he held fast to a drop of his famed grouchiness. “I should’ve noticed. But next time, wait for me to tell you what to do!”

“I think I have a bit more experience moving property around.” Tiny’s haughty remark had a guileless and paradoxically humble quality that charmed a smile out of Belle.

“Yeah, when you were fifty feet tall! Very different scenario.” Grumpy shook his head, then faced Belle. “Where you want this?”

“Against that wall.” Belle pointed to the bare spot next to the closet. That much they could handle without losing more wind. The dresser was from the pink house, but it suited the room’s size. While far removed from a room in a mansion, the new apartment was a balanced blend between Rumple’s estate and her old, cozier loft. It was more than decent by city standards. She’d read about people’s experiences in smaller New York apartments, her own form of research for this monumental decision. Naturally, Rumple wasn’t about to settle for cramped quarters as their future child’s first experience in this world. Not if his pocketbook had any say.

Ah, yes, a reminder that Rumple was paying the bulk of the rent. For now. That would change in a few months, once she found a job. If she found a job.

She chased off the thoughts for later fretting. With Grumpy’s help (Tiny left to start moving Belle’s bookcase off the truck), she arranged the dresser so it stood opposite from the spot where the sun warmed the floor and air. Her bed should go there as part of a logical morning routine, but her heart insisted that her child deserved to know such comforting light.

Grumpy’s weariness shifted to a kinder mood once this delivery was completed. There were still the bookcase and Rumple’s wardrobe to bring up, which Tiny couldn’t do alone even with his strength. After that, it was just unpacking before the new furniture arrived within the next few days.

“Hey,” Grumpy said, “I know it’s late to be saying this, but you sure you’re gonna be okay?”

A part of her wanted to answer in the most selfish way. She had a small right to that selfish feeling, if not the gall to act on it. She pushed out a smile that fit too tightly on her mouth. A shrug tried to cover it. “It is what it is. I’ve come this far.”

“You don’t have to do anything that doesn’t feel right, you know.”

“I know this is right.” She paused. “I want to give this a try. The real, final try. If this can’t work . . . I’ll know one way or the other.”

Grumpy never lost that trace of scowl he was so well known for, but the creases softened for her sake. “I can’t imagine what this all feels like. I want you to know that I’m looking out for you. I hope whatever this is works out. If it doesn’t, you know you can always come back.”

“I can’t really,” Belle said. “Not without the scroll. You still have that, right?”

“Yeah, in the truck.” Grumpy rolled on his feet, a guilty motion, as though it were his fault that Belle was committing to something that seemed so permanent, void of an exit plan.

She quickly caught his arm. The last thing she wanted him or anyone in Storybrooke to think was that she was resigning herself to some grim fate. Far from it. This was an act of hope and trust. “It’s only for a year. I promise. But Rumple and I agreed that there’d be no shortcuts. So, if I decide to . . . to come back, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

“Yeah. It won’t be the same without you. It won’t be the same without your friends right here, either.”

Belle nodded. She would miss Grumpy dearly. Her chest hurt from how much she knew she’d long to chat face-to-face with him, Henry, Granny, all those people she loved. Yet her legs regained some steadiness as she stood in her new room.

“Well, Henry told me there’s something called Skype. It’s like a magic mirror, but you use a computer. He showed it to me on his laptop. Once I get my own, we can chat that way, too. I’ll try it the first chance I get.”

Now Grumpy smiled, unabashedly. Not that hard to accomplish once you knew him. Belle brightened all the same. A strangely beautiful lamp had been switched on.

“I don’t know how you do it,” he said. “It’s kind of crazy, but it’s your gift. If anyone can make this thing work, it’s you.”

Belle pushed her lips up, an effort to hold in the urge to sob. Both her arms circled Grumpy’s neck while she leaned into one of his wide shoulders. He returned the hug.

“Thank you,” she whispered after he gave her a moment of silence.

“No problem.”

More thumping from down the hall. Belle and Grumpy tensed from the same conjured image of Tiny trying to tackle the towering armoire. They both peered into the hall only to see their six-foot friend hefting a couple big boxes in a stack as he trundled into what would become the den.

“Careful,” came Rumple’s voice, calm but ringing faintly with concern. “You can set those down there.”

Tiny dared to stumble again before placing the boxes on the floor as gently as his bulky arms could manage. As he straightened, cracking his back loudly enough that even Grumpy winced, Rumple read the label on the top box.

“Is the bookcase in Belle’s room yet?” Rumple asked.

“That’s the last thing left to bring up,” said Tiny. “Oh, there’s your wardrobe, too.”

“Bring up the bookcase first.”

Tiny nodded, then leaned backward. He spotted Grumpy and Belle in his peripheral. “Ready, Grumpy?”

Grumpy sighed. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

Belle patted his shoulder. “Thank you again.”

“Yeah, well, this is one time where magic would actually be helpful.”

Belle sent him off with a disapproving smile. As he and Tiny left the apartment through the kitchen, she joined Rumple in the den. Her plan to start sorting through the boxes was cut short by Rumple standing in front of the stack and resting his cane against the wall, the handle positioned to prevent a fall. He knelt to scoop the top box into his arms.

“I can get that,” she said, hurrying over to him.

“It’s all right,” he grunted. “I just have to take it slow.”

Her attention went straight to his weaker leg, then up to his face, quick enough that he might not notice. On the way, up she saw the box’s label in permanent marker. In her handwriting. _BELLE’S BOOKS._

Her arms stretched forward. “Rumple.”

The closed distance forced him to stop his uneven but controlled steps. She cupped his forearms, not demanding or chastising. The tension in his muscles that kept the box in his grip could be felt even through the shirt and suit jacket. His forehead clenched, too, but his face was open, pleading, pained.

“I’m fine, sweetheart. I’ll be in and out. Just tell me where you want them.”

Her teeth grazed the inside of her lip. A long held breath was spent contemplating him and the box. She finally turned up a gentle, empathetic, uneasy half-smile. “Do take it slow.”

Rumple nodded. A wispy smile of his own brushed his mouth.

She stuck close behind him as they walked. Her hand touched his shoulder blades a few times, even over the smallest increase in how strongly he landed on his good leg. In the span of a heartbeat, she wildly wondered if he was leaning into her fingers when he paused between steps. Not the time to answer that question. They reached her room. Rumple showed he was committed to honoring his promise with some quick shuffles to a patch of floor that wouldn’t obstruct the arrival of the bookcase, then a hasty return to the door. Belle didn’t move out of his way. She was distracted by the room’s bareness. Rumple stalled his departure to followed her gaze. His own eyes swooped over the sunny area she’d been admiring earlier.

“Do you want the crib there?” He asked as if speaking in the bounds of her room bordered on inappropriate.

Belle gave him a tender look, the same she’d give to a dog sent to the doghouse that was afraid to come back inside once its punishment was over. “I’ve been thinking about it. You think it’s a good spot?”

He hadn’t expected the question, or so his raised eyebrows and soft eyes suggested. He snatched up the offered treat, anyway. “I do. So long as the afternoon sun doesn’t keep the baby awake during naptime.”

Her smile grew, tinged with sad understanding. “It’s hard to know what’s right for a child at every turn, especially without previous experience.”

Careful hesitation preceded Rumple’s answer. He had to let himself process her comment’s intention: an acknowledgement, even an invitation.

A throat-clearing followed. “You’re all right with the crib in your room?”

“For the time being, yes. I grew up in a nursery. When I babysat little Neal, though, his crib was in practically the same room as both his parents. It made me want something different from my own upbringing.” She let her brows crease together while looking at him. “Is it too much?”

“Not at all. I raised Bae in a one-room hut. We didn’t have much choice, but I think he benefitted from it. It was good for him to know that his parents were nearby.”

Belle touched her flat stomach. “We have time to finalize it. But I’d like to leave space.”

“Of course.”

Her lips pursed. Maybe if they were on steadier ground, he would’ve been more willing to say that six months was too far off to start thinking about crib placement. That’s what her rational side was muttering like a cantankerous nanny. In fact, the imaginary voice sounded a lot like Granny’s. Yes, Granny would’ve talk straight and sensibly to her. Rumple just wanted things to settle before putting his foot down on anything.

The literal footfalls of a returning Tiny and Grumpy, plus one bookcase, disrupted the awkward, unspoken tension. Rumple graciously removed himself from the room so the bearers of the bookshelf could navigate into Belle’s room once more.

As soon as it was erect and suitably situated, Belle pulled open the flaps on the box of books and hauled out its treasures by the handful.

“So, uh—” Another throat-clearing, this time outside her room. Belle looked up at Rumple. He was resting a hand on the doorway for support more than to intrude across the threshold. “I can sleep on the sofa.”

Belle sighed. “Rumple, I said I’d be fine. It’s just for a night or two.”

He glanced up, a partly restrained eye-roll. “All right. If you’re _sure_.”

“I’m _sure_.” Her exasperation let fly a goofily vexed huff. She even wobbled her head to parrot Rumple’s affectation.

“I just think,” he said with a shrug, “that if the sofa is good enough for you, it’s good enough for me.”

“Your bed is here. You should sleep in it.” She hadn’t wanted to say what felt like a ‘forbidden’ word, silly as it was. But they were adults and they’d agreed to keep their sleeping quarters separate until at least the six-month mark. Skirting around the subject would’ve been symptomatic of how they’d handled their relationship lately.

The slow sigh from Rumple tempted her to sigh, too. “I suppose that’s best.”

“You know it is. We can’t complicate this.”

“It’s—” He snapped his mouth shut.

Belle closed her eyes. “It’s already complicated. That’s what you want to say.”

No answer. His silence was worse in some ways. Worse than even his misguided attempt to be chivalrous.

It was a small test, one of many to come. She’d promised herself to face those tests rather than run or find excuses. So, Belle placed the books in her hands on the floor, stood up and pivoted to the door and her husband. “I’m not angry. I’m just trying to be sensible. I want you to understand that it’s the best we can do right now.”

The forward motion of his head wasn’t quite a nod. That practically goaded Belle to speak further.

“Does it make sense? Tell me honestly.”

“Yes,” Rumple squeezed out, “of course it does.”

“Don’t say ‘of course.’ You don’t need to say ‘of course’! Tell me what you really feel.”

“Belle—” He pulled back the words that wanted to spill out. It was strange to her, given what he’d said to her in the Underworld not three months back. Maybe his doubts about their relationship hadn’t really dissolved, as he’d claimed. Maybe he wasn’t sure that she loved the beast as well as the man. Perhaps he was remembering how she used the dagger to stop him from throwing Gaston into the River of Lost Souls. Or when she walked away from him at the well, back when his heart was free of the toxic temptation that made her fear for him and for her own happiness. She hadn’t let herself forget those moments. She questioned her decisions again and again—that had to stop. They both had to accept what they did in the past. It couldn’t stand in the way of their future or the key to a steady relationship: honesty.

She walked over and rested her fingers on the crook of his arm. That was another habit she had to keep a firm rein on. The separate bedrooms condition was there for a reason. Even so, in moments like this, physical contact was vital.

“I know it’s hard, Rumple. I know you’re trying to put my needs first. And our child’s. That doesn’t mean you should hide how you feel. If you need something, tell me. No guessing games, all right? And I’ll do the same.”

Slowly, like prying open a recalcitrant window, Rumple parted his lips to speak. “I want you to be happy. That’s the truth. That will _always_ be the truth. But I know I’ve done things, things I told myself _had_ to be done, that hurt you. So forgive me if I’m not sure what to say or do. I don’t want you to feel I’m denying you anything.” He waved his hand, helpless. “Hence the bed suggestion.”

Her throat clenched. She nearly smiled. Instead, she shook her head. “You’re not denying me anything by sleeping in your own bed. The sofa is plenty comfortable. You’re worried I’m trying to be self-sacrificing?”

“I’d say that’s an important facet of who you are.”

“I suppose so.” There was an unpleasant tug in her gut as she added, “I’m trying to figure out where to draw the line on that. I’m not trying to be _selfish_. Just more—more willing to think about what I need as well as what the people around me need.”

He nodded with more energy.

“That includes you, you know.” She pulled in a shaky breath. “I always will, even when we don’t get along.”

The not-quite-there smile left a buttery expression on Rumple’s face, which warmed her heart. His eyes started to shine, and she wanted to touch his face. She missed being close to him. But she settled for an affectionate rub on the forearm, then a pat when Grumpy shouted, “We got the wardrobe!” from the kitchen.

Rumple stepped backward and headed off to direct their helpers to his bedroom, the armoire’s new location. Belle returned to her books box. The familiar odors of their pages, the dust that came with them, helped her settle into the task of lining them on the shelf as though it was just another day in her strange but manageable life. After all, it was.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a month in their new home, Rumple and Belle consider their job prospects. Rumple is still grappling with living without magic, not to mention the uncertainty of his and Belle's relationship.

“This is impossible!”

Emotional outbursts were no foreign phenomenon to Rumplestiltskin, but where Belle was concerned, they happened with only good reason. She was the one quick to ask him to rein in his freak-outs. The last month in New York had seen a small change in that area. Right now, his morning arrival to the kitchen proved it.

“How is anyone supposed to find a job? Look at this!” Belle turned around the laptop—a machine she’d finally (mostly) tamed after two visits and two phone calls with a consulting group called the Geek Squad. She made sure he could see the cause of her vexation.

Rumple barely brushed his gaze over the screen. “Are you having trouble navigating the . . .” Damn it, what was the word? “Windows?”

“No, not this time. Look at this list of qualifications!”

Rumple pulled up a chair for a better look. His eyes were starting to feel the wear of use and age without magic to refresh them. Belle hadn’t said anything about his squinting. Yet. Fortunately, the font on the application for a bookseller position was sensibly sized. He hummed. “Two years’ experience, at least. Well, a librarian position should count. I think they set the benchmark high to keep the applicant pool manageable.”

“Look at the first item,” Belle pressed.

Rumple glanced at the first requirement. Bachelor’s degree. He’d skipped right over that.

“You’re very well-educated,” he said.

“But I don’t have a degree. _All_ the jobs I’ve looked at require a degree. What are the people who can’t afford a formal education in this world supposed to do?”

Rumple frowned while scooting back. “Take the jobs the educated people don’t want.”

Belle sighed and lowered her eyes. She reclaimed her laptop to brood a little more. Rumple wanted to say something to chase off her gloom, so he uttered the first thought that came into his head. ‘Yes, that’s a reliable impulse’ was his second thought.

“Maybe Regina can tell you your cursed persona’s degree.”

Belle’s askance stare reproached him sooner than her words. “My cursed persona was Lacey. Regina didn’t even create her until after the curse was broken.”

Rumple winced. “Right.”

She shut the laptop like a defeated knight retiring her armor. “I should’ve realized getting a job wasn’t going to be simple. I never had to think about it before.” She shifted to look at him. “Never mind. Tell me how you’re doing. Probably having more luck than me.”

He shrugged as he finished pouring coffee into his mug. “I’ve found a few prospects in antiquing.”

Her morose mood did abate, as he’d hoped. Puzzlement replaced it. “You don’t sound excited.”

“It’s not the same as having your own business.”

“I see. Why not open your own store?”

“That would make sense if . . . if we knew this was long-term.” Rumple stared at his mug. Only after a few quiet seconds, with no answer from Belle, did he look at her.

Her confusion softened into contemplation. He wondered, against his better judgement, if she was hiding anger. Maybe she was just as uncertain about what she wanted beyond a year. That didn’t soothe Rumple. His own reluctance to settle into a different life, one void of magic, was a weakness in her eyes. And it could threaten their stability in the future, a potent fear where their child was concerned. He was trying, though.

“There’s more to it,” he pushed himself to say. “I’ll work in antiques if that’s what keeps us in the black. But just thinking about it . . . I keep remembering the past. All the years I waited for the curse to break. To find Bae. And then . . . I’d rather be reminded as little as possible. If that makes any sense.”

“It does,” Belle said, no hesitation.

He scoffed. “Really?”

She folded hands next to the sleeping laptop. It was her turn to sheepishly meet his eye. “I can’t imagine what it was like for you. For me, Storybrooke was another adventure, just as living in the Dark Castle was a kind of adventure. But I understand that it has painful associations for you.”

Rumple watched her. Didn’t it have painful associations for her, too? Because of him?

“Well,” she continued, perking up, “maybe you could set up a different shop.” She rested her chin and a playful smile on one hand. “How about a bridal shop? You have an eye for nice dresses.”

A rare, spontaneous chuckle left Rumple’s throat. “I think my involvement in other people’s love lives is behind me.”

“I don’t know. I’m picturing you arguing with a bridezilla. You know, really dramatic brides-to-be who scream at anyone and anything that doesn’t adhere to their vision of the perfect wedding.”

“Where on Earth have you heard of ‘bridezillas’?”

“I do watch TV once in a while, Rumple. And I might’ve known a lady or two back in the Enchanted Forest whose egos went wild as their nuptials approached.”

The picture of Belle outwitting belligerent brides widened Rumple’s smile. “Well, it would be different, certainly.”

“We both might need to think outside our purview of experience. Maybe I should look into cleaning jobs. Like an actual maid.” The idea made her sigh right after she said it.

“But your pregnancy—” Rumple straightened. His brows pulled upward and his eyes widened. His hand started to move toward hers.

She waved him off, all but banishing his hand back to the table. “Don’t worry. It’d be a temporary way to earn some extra income.” She paused while her fingers drummed. “I want to stay busy and be useful.”

And she wanted some control. The rent was being paid out of his bank account. There was no quick way to even out the financial imbalance between them, but he could understand that even a small contribution meant something. She had no library to turn to, no separate apartment to call her own. A pang squeezed Rumple’s heart. Not very long ago, she hadn’t needed her own money and residence. If only he hadn’t . . .

“You’ll find something,” he said. “Would you like me to help at all, if it’s in my power?”

Belle closed her eyes. He waited, barely breathing.

“I’d appreciate it.” The slight strain in her voice—the strain to her pride—urged Rumple to say or do something right away. Like touch her knuckles or her shoulder. His hand clenched. Resistance made desire burn in his bones.

“I’m heading out soon,” he said. “Should I pick up anything on my way home?”

“We’re good for now. Are you taking the car?”

“The shop is within walking distance.” Parking was hell in this city. Walking was gradually alleviating cramps in his bad leg, anyway. He could take the bus, but the thought of riding a rumbling, noisy public vehicle while surrounded by strangers who might pity his disability or catch a whiff of strangeness frazzled him. Better to take advantage of the pleasant weather. He might take another walk if he needed to recuperate from a poor interview.

“If you change your mind, I won’t need the car,” Belle said. “I might take a walk of my own over in Prospect Park. The leaves are turning. Should be gorgeous.”

Rumple smiled. With time they’d get more comfortable with New York and feel free to make impromptu plans without always having to fill each other in on their whereabouts. Right now, Belle probably wanted the security that, if some disaster occurred, he’d have some idea where she was.

They both finished breakfast in comfortable quiet. He did his best to organize his thoughts into a list of questions to ask during the interview. What was the pay? What were the hours? Were there employee benefits? They felt strange to ask when he’d been self-employed for so much of his life. Even his peasant days in the Enchanted Forest didn’t follow a 9-5 schedule. If you were a peasant, you were working all the time, morning to night. In Storybrooke, he could set his own hours, and that came with a power almost as addictive as magic.

No magic and no direct control over his income. His bad leg decided to throb.

“You’ll do great,” Belle said with a shoulder squeeze and a kiss on the head.

Rumple punched down the memories of her kisses elsewhere. “Thanks, sweetheart.” The endearment slipped out. He paused, ready for a reprimand.

Belle rubbed his shoulder, then walked over to the sink to rinse dishes. Her half-smile seemed to want to say more than her tongue was ready to.

* * *

There was something to be said about the taste of fresh air after one has spent hours surrounded by old furniture and objects. He remembered loving the confines of his shop; it had been his haven, his dragon’s den of treasures. Maybe with the enlightenment of hindsight, he could recall the weight of that confinement. A self-punishment. The Dark Castle had been a larger (but just as shuttered) version. Sanctuary and prison—his shop, his castle, his magic.

The outside air and utter mundanity of New York didn’t evoke the sensation of shackles falling off, as he’d secretly hoped. It was more like throwing away one’s clothes and trying to walk on a log across a ravine, naked to the elements. Any minute, either exposure or gravity would get him. Yet he found some strength deep, deep down to walk forward. He’d exited the antique shop, intentionally blanking his mind of how well or poorly it went and just walked.

Sightseeing or people-watching didn’t hold his interest. He found himself taking note of the other stores in the more commercial part of town. His feet slowed when he noticed a consignment shop and its window of slightly gaudy vintage women’s clothes and, in the corner, the sign NOW HIRING. As soon as he saw the young people manning the register and their casual attire, he moved on. He might want to work somewhere other than an antique shop, but the idea of giving up his suits seemed as gruesome as a tortoise being forced out of its shell.

A part of him wanted to go home, and a part of him didn’t. Belle might be waiting there. She might’ve already left for an errand. She might’ve preferred he not come home so soon. He didn’t really know. He knew so little about what she wanted now. Or he had little idea what he could give her except her space. Belief, perhaps, that he’d hold true to his promise, to fight against the emptiness in his stomach when he couldn’t feel magic pulling at him, urging him to apparate somewhere, or summon something, or transform the driver of a vehicle zooming through a changing traffic light into a toad. The impulse remained. It was like when he’d hobbled his own leg; an ability he’d taken for granted had been stripped away. Yet he’d managed. Struggled. All for his family.

His heart tightened. Sometimes this situation with Belle felt all too familiar. Not as bad, at least. No, no. If Belle didn’t love him, she would’ve ended it. She didn’t have the reasons Milah did for staying. Well, there was their unborn child. Milah had loved Bae, if not enough to overcome her loathing of her cowardly husband. They’d landed in a desperate spot with limited options. Belle had the means to say it was over, and they could still raise their child. Not ideal, but not the worst a child could live with, so long as that child knew both parents loved them. And Belle would love their child with all her heart. That much he knew. She’d loved their child more than she could ever hate him. But, by the gods, he wasn’t going to test that!

A little fear had its benefits. Rumple considered that with a bitter smile.

When he became aware of the world around him thanks to some blaring horns at a jammed intersection, Rumple realized he’d walked farther than intended. He truly was downtown, a confusing crisscross of avenues and currents of people and automobiles, like swarming insects. Rather than find his way to a homeward route, he spotted a bus bench and took a seat. Stiffness clamped like a vise around his ankle. As he rubbed the taut muscles, feeling the uneven healing in his bones, he distracted himself with more window shopping. His eyes were getting tired. What was he even looking for? Some special sign just for him? Even fate wasn’t that obvious. The path he needed, the straight line down this tightrope walk he was on, wasn’t going to scream out at him—

Something caught his eye. Something in a shop window toward the end of the block. He leaned in his seat, squinting. Was that—no. He pushed himself up. Might as well make certain he was wrong and carry that as a reminder in future bouts of foolishness. His ankle buckled for a second. He growled under his breath and stamped his cane stubbornly on the cement. One look and he’d head home.

As he approached, certainty grew, along with disbelief. Disbelief that deserved swearing.

He couldn’t say what floored him more. On the other side of the store window he now looked into, a shelf of yarn and fabric spanned an entire wall. Tables and counters had a standing army of sewing machines, sewing kits, yarn and crochet kits, even paint sets and small canvases.

On the window itself, embossed in gold print, read the shop’s name.

Rumple tilted his head back. He looked directly at the sky for the first time in ages. “Are you kidding me?” he said.

When his eyes dropped down to the sign, a waving hand behind it called his attention. A black, rotund woman was cheerily greeting him. The impulse to run away or rudely ignore her couldn’t quite smother the incredulous intrigue. Why did this exist? Why had he found it? Just, _why_?

Why was he walking inside?

The jingle overhead shouldn’t have stirred so much nostalgia. The subtle scents of cloth transported him to well before Storybrooke’s existence. Fleetingly, he imagined a boy sitting on a stool while his aunts showed him how to work the loom, guiding the shuttle like a serpent through the grass.

The woman behind the counter had a radiance that would’ve suited someone’s aunt or mother. Possibly someone’s grandmother, as suggested by the crow’s feet around her smiling eyes.

“Afternoon! Can I help you with anything today?”

“Well . . . I noticed your shop sign.” Pathetic. His nerve was faltering already. But he had doubts that he wasn’t dreaming right now.

The woman laughed. “You like? I suggested it to Laura—she’s the owner and she wanted to spice up the name to catch people’s eye. Guess it worked!”

Rumple faintly nodded. “Actually, I was wondering if you’re hiring.”

She gasped. “Oh, yeah! Hang on, let me grab Laura. Gimme a sec.”

The wait after the woman hustled into a hidden back room gave Rumple enough time to question this decision and wonder if he should leave. Wasn’t this just a joke to further torment him about the past?

The shop was small and cluttered. Bright lights above brought every color to life. He felt like a black spot on this vibrant canvas. His purple shirt and tie did help offset the charcoal suit.

The lady returned with another black woman—more petite, about ten years older with glasses and gray, short hair. “Afternoon,” she pleasantly greeted. “You’re looking for a job?”

“If you’re looking for more employees,” he said.

She waved him toward her. “Come back into my office and we’ll chat. I’m Laura Smith.”

“Malcolm Gold.” The name came a little too easily. Sure, it was the name on his resume—“Mr.” could pass in a cursed Maine town; not so much in an uncursed city in the Land Without Magic. He hated the choice, yet he couldn’t think of anything more appropriate. Any odd revision of his real name sounded obvious and ridiculous. And why shouldn’t he carry a name abandoned by its previous owner? Maybe he could make it more respectable. Ah, a familiar story.

“Gold?” The other woman lit up, delightedly astonished.

Rumple half-smiled, half-winced. As he followed Laura, her employee introduced herself as Jazire. He told himself not to latch any expectations on the shop or its workers, yet he stored the name in his mind out of habit. In the office, just as cozy and haphazardly stuffed with textile tools and a filing cabinet, he had to pause at the presence of a small but functional spinning wheel tucked in a corner. Ms. Smith offered him a chair before taking a seat herself.

“Forgive the mess,” she said. “We’re been reorganizing. So, tell me about yourself. You have experience in fabrics?”

“I do. Uh, I have a copy of my resume.” He extracted it from his briefcase and handed it to her while adding, “More recently I’ve made a living as a small business owner, but I started working with textiles long before that.”

She took a careful but concise glance at the stiff, cream-colored paper. “You are new to Brooklyn?”

He nodded. “My wife and I wanted a new start. We’re expecting.”

That news immediately earned a heartfelt “Congratulations!” even as she gave his credentials serious scrutiny. Rumple wasn’t naïve; explaining that his job search was motivated by a future family couldn’t hurt his prospects. While they talked about his previous shop, he stole a peek at the spinning wheel behind him. It was a similar model to what he used in his peasant days, a castle wheel designed to take up as little space as possible. It looked recently restored—varnished wood, polished spindle.

“Do you spin the thread and yarn here?” he asked at an opportune pause in conversation.

“Oh, no,” Laura said, disappointed. “I wish I knew how. I purchased it from a friend. I thought about putting out in the window as a display.”

A strange thought entered Rumple’s head. “Would you be interested in learning? I could teach you.”

Her thin eyebrows popped up. “You know how to spin?”

“I do. My experience in textiles does extend to that.”

She scooted closer to the desk. “How would you feel about teaching a small class?”

“You have classes?”

“Sure! Jazire teaches sewing and knitting. We advertise classes on signs, flyers, our website and Facebook page. Jazire can tell you more about the online . . . stuff.” Her fluttering handwave had Rumple chuckling, politely. “We’ve had regular enrollment in our other classes. I think a spinning class would be popular. A lot of customers are interested in homemade products. They’d be thrilled to know they can make their own yarn!”

“And you can just order wool fibers?”

“I’ve looked into it. The expense would be covered by the price of classes, even if the classes are only four or five people at a time.”

He’d not thought to look that up himself. He hadn’t needed to in Storybrooke. He’d had lanolin stocked in his shop thanks to the curse’s thoroughness, the same convenient power that supplied Granny’s freezer and the local grocery store. There was little need to order anything, limited as their goods were. He hadn’t done much spinning in his free time, and his wool had come with him from the Enchanted Forest. All that magic had brushed away so many inconveniences of mundane life—inconveniences he now had to be prepared to wrangle. Oh, gods.

“Are you all right?” Laura asked with grandmotherly concern.

Rumple noticed the cold shiver when it was already halfway down his body. “Yes! Yes, sorry. I’m just . . . curious about the clientele you usually have.”

Laura assured him that while spinning was far from a necessity, its novelty would attract older, upper-middle-class clients hungry for a hobby. By the time she finished her explanation of how the classes at the shop operated, Rumple had regained enough presence of mind to not look stricken or distracted. She pulled the conversation back to spinning, specifically wool, which he felt much more comfortable discussing. The more he shared his experience with different wool types, then plant fibers, the more Laura brightened with interest.

A strange sense of relief blanketed him well before he left the shop with a formal application and a promise that Laura would get in touch within a week of receiving his paperwork. Jazire made sure to shake his hand, a gesture he guessed she deemed an important gauge of character. Either that or she just wanted to be friendly. The shop, its atmosphere, even its owner and worker whispered déjà vu. The modern setting was still a far cry from a humble, often chilly hovel that barely supported two spinsters and the orphan they’d taken in. When he stepped into the gently nipping autumnal air, it was a splash of water or a sobering slap. The how’s and why’s and should I’s trailed behind him like a gaggle of annoying children that prompted him to keep looking over his shoulder. He had to briefly double back and check that he hadn’t hallucinated everything.

Two weeks later, he hesitantly asked Belle if she’d like to walk with him to his new job. That was his way of announcing that he was indeed an employed man. Belle was more curious than enthused, even while she grinned and hugged him in congratulations. She was proud. Truly she was. He let himself hug her in return, pressing flat hands into her shoulder blades and drawing light circles. Her delicate scent elated him; the tension in her shoulders, the sign of her inwardly directed annoyance that she still hadn’t met success herself, begged him to kiss them or offer a relieving rub.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “But there’s a special reason I want you to see it yourself.”

Belle pulled back, but not completely out the embrace. He was immensely grateful. “Why?”

“Because if I just told you about it, you would never believe me.”

He probably inspired more anxiety than intended. It was worth it to keep Belle in suspense until, arm in arm, they arrived at the shop. Belle’s jaw started dropping eeven before they stopped before the shop's sign.

“You’re right,” she said. “I wouldn’t have believed you.”

“I know it sounds strange to ask,” Rumple said, “but does this seem right? Or disturbingly bizarre?”

Belle studied the shop front before replying. The name deserved some time to absorb: RUMPELSTILTKSKIN HOMEMADE CRAFTS. The cheery hues within poured around the antiquated yet playful script.

“Are you asking if I think this might be fate?” she asked.

“It’s a little on the nose.”

“A little?” Her arched response carried that perfect blend of sweet teasing and dry wit—iconic Belle humor. Rumple had to beat back the urge to nuzzle and kiss her. There was no stopping the wide smile.

She took a turn for shiny-eyed sentiment that left him a little raw, the kind of rawness that weakened his knees. “I think it’s just right. Maybe obvious, but that’s no reason not to try it.” She eyed the store again. A slow revelation slipped into her expression. She muted it behind a smile when she looked at him, as though she wanted to let him come to the same epiphany on his own. “I think it will go well.”

“I hope so. Laura said I could wear suits, but I might need to give up the jacket while working the counter.”

“Then may I suggest you break out the sleeve garters?”

He patted his upper arm. “I’d be naked without them.”

Her giggle and her squeeze on his arm brought on another warm swell of affection. He could swear she rubbed her thumb in the crook of his elbow before he escorted her into the shop to introduce her to his coworker. Jazire was already awaiting them with a smile and a wave.


End file.
